


Stray Bolts

by Redmalkin



Series: If We Have Unearned Luck [4]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Sex, Got Your Back- Always, Kirkwall Pack Honourable Mention, M/M, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Rough Sex, Sarcastic!Warrior!Cian Hawke, Start of Healing, WARNING:Recent Past Rape/Non Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redmalkin/pseuds/Redmalkin
Summary: Immediate Sequel to "A Well-punctuated Response". Suggested first read but not essential.Set post MotA; early Act IIIPicking up the pieces after Chateau Haine, one piece at a time.And they'll kill as many monsters as it takes to walk out of this maze together.
Relationships: Male Hawke/Varric Tethras
Series: If We Have Unearned Luck [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1289096
Kudos: 9





	1. Caught in the Maze

Three weeks, and the word Varric would choose to describe them would be ‘barbed’. The fact that the three day journey back to Kirkwall from the nightmare that was Chateau Haine had taken just over a week had not, unfortunately, as it turned out been enough time for the diplomatic hysteria to die down.

They’d managed to keep their return unknown for an entire day, arriving via a Darktown ‘dock’ that even in the bad old early days together in Kirkwall had been a venue of last resort. Bhodhan and Orana had willingly met all callers with polite, helpful and utterly stonewalling hospitality, delaying Hawke having to deal with any of the Keep’s ‘ambassadors’ for another day.

None of the others had argued with Varric’s statement that Hawke needed a couple of day’s downtime; contact-free. They hadn’t pressed for the details he hadn’t given although he could see the questions, and concern, in their eyes. Anders had been by once, briefly, to finish the remaining minor healings on Hawke’s ankle and ribs. And in a case of ‘do as I say, not as I do’ Varric hadn’t been able to stay away entirely; turning up late on the first morning after their return despite nursing a hangover that almost made him wish whatever they’d been drinking last night had been poison.

When they’d reached Anders’ clinic in the small hours Hawke had turned aside at the hidden entrance to the Amell estate cellars; the only anonymous means of returning that didn’t involve more rooftops than any of them were up to dealing with.

“Get some rest, all of you, and try and stay out of trouble for a few days. Killing a foreign Duke has to be some kind of personal record, even for us.”

The weak attempt at levity couldn’t hide the fact that this close to home and actual defensive walls, the shadows were back with a vengeance, tearing down the mental ones Hawke had thrown up to get them all home.

“Varric…I’ll see you at the Hanged Man.”  
The words attempting to be casual, using up the last shreds of the mask of leadership even as the look that Hawke turned to him pleaded for the chance to go to ground from everything for a while. Varric nodded, intending to offer a touch light, non-threatening; and wanting to offer a patented dwarven bear hug. As if sensing his thoughts Hawke slipped back from his intended movement, vanishing up the passage into the dark.

When Varric opened his eyes after a long moment, glancing over to Isabela in the grim silence that lingered he saw the unspoken agreement that they weren’t going to bother making it back to the Hanged Man to carry out the only ending a mission like that just gone warranted. She’d looted several bottles from the nearest Darktown drunks, demanding Anders check them to make sure they weren’t actively designed to kill people as they’d commandeered a space in the back of the clinic to get down to the business of getting blackly, stinkingly drunk as fast as possible.

Anders had slightly disapprovingly commented that there wasn’t much in it concerning the bottles’ contents, but he hadn’t stopped them; leaving the clinic closed for the few remaining hours until dawn. He’d actually joined them when at some point the evening degenerated into telling the filthiest, most disgusting stories they had; and as a healer had produced some stunners. It was possible he might have won if anyone had been capable of that much comparative thought by that point.

Varric had dragged himself round to issue orders concerning repelling all comers; hoping it was a good sign that Hawke hadn’t emerged yet when he forced himself to leave, Anders’ own orders sitting in his head.

_“If you go up there you’d better have the best bloody reason ever for not giving him the space he needs for the next couple of days. He’ll come to you, no matter what you might think, if he trusts you. Don’t force it.”_

-o-o-o-o-o-

The healer might have been right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. As a distraction the next two days had been spent determining which rumours he needed to quash, and which ones he needed to spread; and implementing the results with grim efficiency.

Around the third day Hawke had met the sixth, or possibly seventh envoy, right about the time they’d decided to send an actual ambassador not just a messenger bearing a summons. And provided an entirely sincere and impressively untrue account of their uneventful and enjoyable attendance at Chateau Haine. They’d taken their leave of the Duke early in the morning, an old friend from Ferelden who’d happened to be visiting with a passion for hunting and an unexpected business opportunity that had delayed his return from Orlais. And he was interested himself in the rumours concerning bad business at the Chateau.

Qunari? Well not that they’d noticed and he’d had practice. And assassins didn’t seem like their style, their methods tended more towards the brutally direct in response to threats or betrayal. But what _military_ interest would the Qunari have in murdering an Orlesian Duke, Orlais being a signatory to the peace treaty…

For all that Hawke had never had an interest in playing the nobility’s political games and a bluffing ability that tended to be erratic at the card table; on a battlefield it was unerring, as was his instinct for sensing them. And politics was frequently only one very small verbal misstep away; right now it was a dance of bluff after insinuation after counter-bluff. But while they had no proof of the truth they knew about events at the Chateau, neither did the Orlesians. The rest of the witnesses to the final confrontation were dead, with one exception they were fairly certain wouldn’t be making an appearance anytime soon to enlighten either side.

And if Corvais was too experienced a player to believe the story given to him was the whole or even partial truth, he was willing to pretend; and to take the warning behind Hawke’s words as well as the political bone. Apparently such insinuations concerning Qunari, and Orlesian, motivations hadn’t been Hawke’s alone, and opinion seemed to be that when it came to it the Orlesians would be willing to let the matter lie when a sufficient level of pontificating had occurred in both directions.

Varric had gleaned some of the facts, and heard the rest along with the others, in a conversation at the Hanged Man that had eventually shifted to his rooms as a kindness to Corff; on the grounds that the glares directed towards anyone venturing anywhere vaguely resembling that corner of the pub were bad for business. Hawke had told it as the final chapter in catching everyone up on the sorry business; most of it. Casually; as if Varric might want to use it as starting material for his write-up. Since the status quo concerning that thrice-damned list was probably ever so slightly better than its presence in Orlesian hands, that smallest of victories was enough that even Sebastian had refrained from any form of commentary on the ill-advised nature of that particular job.

Varric was too busy being glad of Hawke’s presence to even make much of a pretence at a few desultory notes on a tale that would likely never see the light of day in any form for the foreseeable future. And along with everyone else he pretended not to notice the tension that ran through Hawke’s uncharacteristic subduedness and abysmal performance at the card table, behind even Anders and Merrill. Admittedly that might have been due to his lack of partaking in the dubious fortification that was the Hanged Man’s alcohol, another oddity let pass without comment.

-o-o-o-o-o-

They could have kept the game of ‘keep away’ with the Powers-That-Be going for a lot longer if they’d been working out of the Hanged Man. Since Leandra’s death Hawke had tended to end up there more than half the nights of any given week, regardless of whatever hours Varric was working. Other times, well, there was a certain attraction to having luxuries available on tap when they wanted them, even if he’d never admit to it in the common room. 

And damn if it didn’t amaze Varric sometimes how much he’d come to love reaching his rooms at some unholy hour to find a certain human lounging in a chair, idly scribbling ‘notes’ through whatever draft Varric had accidentally-on-purpose left lying around; or sprawled asleep across a bed now about as tidy as if a nug had taken a dust bath in it. Or the evenings of Hawke leaning over Varric’s shoulder, purring creatively lewd suggestions in his ear. These inspirations would have been far more helpful if they weren’t frequently offered when Varric was battling Guild paperwork; which came into the category of an enemy that you could shoot, it just wouldn’t die. _“…and those forms will have to be redone; in triplicate…”_

For the last three weeks however, Varric felt like he’d been trying to negotiate a labyrinth where the walls kept shifting, frequently without warning. While hauling it across the wilds of Orlais more nights than not Varric had gently backed off, giving Hawke the space he wouldn’t ask for as he’d tried to hold the pretence that everything was fine, tried to hold back the flinches that anything more than the most casual of touches brought. Since their return to Kirkwall Varric had been sleeping, badly; in a bed distressingly unrumpled. And while he intended to walk this maze for as long as he needed to, would never abandon Hawke, he’d had to draw more than was pretty on his ability to wait for a plan to come together; to ignore the helplessness of watching his lover in pain, lost in the same maze. And officially the monster in the middle that you had to kill to leave was already dead.

Oh none of this meant that he hadn’t seen Hawke. That night at the Hanged Man had been followed by close to two gruelling weeks, a reminder of those frantic months before the Deep Roads when, within certain limits what had mattered most had been turning over jobs as fast as possible to keep the coins coming in. Back then Varric had been happy to frequently offer, and help with the work; wanting their agreement to succeed even as he’d been impressed with Hawke’s resourcefulness. Now it was supposed to be one of the perks that they took on that sort of work far less, and by choice rather than necessity.

The pace that Hawke had set had amounted to a relentless assault on the predators in and around Kirkwall that walked on any number of legs. They’d killed so many exotic creatures that even the Bone Pit seemed temporarily cowed, and Sol had insisted several times, slightly desperately, that there really was nothing he needed collected by way of ingredients.

Slavers, bandits and the remaining gangs still determined to work the streets against Aveline and the Guard had also not had a good time of it. Even if Varric suspected that several of their late night excursions had stretched the definition of ‘job’ more towards ‘passing idle comment’. He wasn’t the only one; Sebastian had frequently contrived to be elsewhere and more importantly, so had Aveline several days in. That conversation had walked closer than usual to the line of things being said that couldn’t easily be taken back, concerning where ‘assisting the guard’ ended and ‘vigilantism’ began.

-o-o-o-o-o-

_“And yet you’ll take the ‘off the books’ help when your lot can’t handle things, as long as everyone dances along to your own special moral tune.”_

_“I’ve spent the last six years building up the Guard to make Kirkwall a city where the law means something; I thought in spite of everything that meant something to you as well. But this, this isn’t like you Hawke.”_

_“Still trying to cram everyone into your worldview through the power of denial Aveline? ‘This’ seems to have done me fairly well so far, and you once upon a time. But if you’re suddenly squeamish about lightening the hangman’s load, feel free not to come. We’ll try and leave something nice and easy for the Guard.”_

_“I won’t help you do your best to get yourself killed; and break Varric’s heart into the bargain, you ass. And this won’t help with whatever’s wrong; I hope you figure that one out before it’s too late.”_

For all they fought like cats and dogs Varric knew there was genuine concern in her attempt; unfortunately ultimatums were a high-risk, high-failure tactic. And he could have strangled her for the loss of a frontline fighter; there was a reckless edge to Hawke’s battle presence that was giving Varric worse sleepless nights. He silently gifted Fenris a week, possibly even two of sarcastic retort-free brooding for his unquestioning willingness to cover that gap. In another gift of small miracles the triangle of bickering between him and Anders, and Merrill, that flared up whenever two of them were in each other’s presence for more than five minutes had been kept below a level where Hawke usually felt compelled to step in, despite his opinions on the subject of blood magic, and wrangle the party back onto the day’s misadventure.

And over the days Varric had watched worry war with exhaustion in all of their eyes whether they knew, suspected or wondered at the reason for the shadows that haunted Hawke in the infrequent unguarded moments.


	2. Break Point

The break point came, and the irony was not lost on Varric, from a job he’d requested; more than a little reluctantly at that point. But he made a point of keeping tabs on just who, reputable or known disreputable, was offering work to the Lowtown youngsters. Making efforts to see that risk was suitably rewarded, and that exploitation was ‘discouraged’; severely and occasionally permanently. And something about the failure of several of his runners to turn up for a couple of days set off a warning bell in his mind.

He’d expected ill intentions; he hadn’t expected blood mages of the crazier than usual variety, whose intentions in their ‘experiments’ he didn’t care to find out the details of. ‘Break’ had nearly become literal, and not in their favour; the fight had been a painful grind of fatigue-fuelled screw-ups, near misses and desperate saves on all their parts, taking too long and too many potions.

The aftermath saw them all at Anders’ clinic, along with the in the end seven kids they’d rescued in more or less one piece; physically anyway. Anders had patched them up to frequent imprecatory mutterings, apparently holding them all equally (ir)responsible; and a notable lack of sympathy, if with his usual level of care. He’d informed them the kids would be staying another couple of days, and kicked them out to drag themselves back to their respective homes. This time though, Varric made that trip in silence, but not alone.

“Did Anders tell you?”  
There was a stiffness edging the quietly deliberate words that wasn’t to do with the physical after-effects of the day’s chaos.

“About what, Sweeps?”  
Hawke’s mere presence in his rooms, combined with the tone and clutched in one hand the first alcohol Varric had seen him touch since that blighted night gave him a fairly clear heads up about the subject about to be broached. He strove to keep his tone neutral, even if the impending conversation filled him with equal parts relief and trepidation.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Chateau Haine. The Harlequin. About…the rape.”  
The word hung between them, ugly, burning the air around it as the whiskey burned his throat for the first time in weeks. He’d fought the temptation, knowing that otherwise he’d have spent too much of the past two weeks drunk off his ass; the loss of control too close to the grip of the FeverDream. At least this way the broken sleep and half-formed nightmares had been his alone. It’d probably been a mistake to think it would ease the surreal edge of the conversation they were sliding into. One which he’d be still running from, burying it under yet another mission; in combat he understood and accepted the limits of control. Except for the knowledge that today had been too bloody close, and not just for him. Looked like Aveline had been right; cow.

“No. I already knew. It…wasn’t the first time.”  
Of course; there seemed to be little Varric hadn’t encountered in some form or other, why would this be the exception? He was managing neutral a lot better of the two of them, as Hawke felt a flash of relief, resentment he couldn’t even tell at the words.

“Who else knows?”  
The question suddenly vitally important; to know if it was knowing pity or ignorant concern behind the looks he knew had gone back and forth even as he’d refused to acknowledge them. And even as they’d followed him into one battle after another; letting him run.

“Rivaini perhaps; with what that bastard said to you…she hasn’t asked and I haven’t said. It’s not mine to speak about anyway.”

“Really; Anders was quick enough to suggest I talk to someone. I’d assumed you’d let the others know since you’ve all spent the past two weeks watching like I’m made of glass.”  
Not giving a damn whether that was fair or not. His anger snapped like lightening, leaping undirected from target to target.

“They care; they don’t need to know the details to do that. I hoped you’d talk to someone, if you wanted; but it’s your choice who you tell, if anyone.”

“What’s there to tell? It happened? I wish it hadn’t? I’m sure there are worse stories to hear- Anders, Isabela, Fenris…”   
_/Varric, for all you know/_ part of him whispered.  
Varric didn’t respond; letting a silence continue undemanding, but one that subtly invited someone to fill it.  
The chair at once pulling him in and yet too close. Alcohol trailed sharp heat down his throat again as he resisted the urge to pace; any movement to avoid acknowledging the truth of the matter.

“I didn’t fight him” Hawke said eventually; the admission harsh. Shame burned, twisting again to relief that they hadn’t come, hadn’t seen what he’d surrendered to, _allowed_.

“Not enough to…stop him; hard to know what- who he was, under the ‘Dream. Just enough to make things worse.” Unbidden his hand drifted to the site of the brand, healed without scarring thanks to Anders’ skill… _“a more memorable token”_ …the tingling itch his imagination. Staring at a spot on the wall, unwilling to meet Varric’s eyes.

“Perhaps his description wasn’t so wrong after all.”

“ _Never._ ” The certainty in Varric’s voice was ironclad. “And it wouldn’t matter a damn to me what you did for a living, it wouldn’t make what he did right; in any way.”  
“Was he…the only one?”

“No…there was another; one of the guards. It…wasn’t the same. Just a blowjob…not my best offering.” The sound that came from his throat missed laughter by several notes, sounding too high in his ears as Hawke clenched his teeth on it. Another swallow, his glass was empty, no smoother however much he’d had; was it supposed to get easier.  
“Him I killed, on the way out. Man with an axe.”

“I remember.”

“Not well enough to remember it when you decided to take care of the Harlequin. Trying to atone for whatever guilt you thought you had a claim on from all of this; or are we going back a few years now?” The sudden focussing of his anger snapped him out of whatever defensive shell he’d pulled around himself, shifting his gaze to meet Varric’s. Knowing they’d reached a heart of the matter he hadn’t even recognised until they’d arrived. Saw the truth of his accusation in the stricken look that flickered for a moment in Varric’s eyes.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“Gods I’m sorry Cian; I had no right to put that on you. It’s not your-”

“Not my what? Not my problem? Doesn’t seem that way now. Maker’s balls Varric; this was supposed to have died _five years_ ago. You were bespelled, that wasn’t you or we wouldn’t be here, so don’t you _dare_ try and hold me responsible for whatever I said while I was out of my mind on that fucking drug!”  
Did it make a twisted form of logic that if Varric still held the guilt from back then that he’d take on whatever else had been levelled at him? Another moment of weakness he didn’t want to acknowledge. He doesn’t remember, which is worse; has no way of knowing what he said or did, doesn’t want to ask. But here and now the anger was for what he was denied.

“And that has nothing to do with…you killed him. He was _mine_.”

“It…was a battle call at the time. If we hadn’t had you to hold the rest of that fight together-”

“Holding it together, always that isn’t it?” _/Like the last two weeks?/_ “And so that’s a reason to go play the hero and nearly get yourself bloody well killed; that wasn’t your call to make!” Not caring that he could have taken what Varric had offered, finished it however he wanted. He hadn’t wanted it like that, too late, not enough-would it ever have been? Unable to prove to him, to himself…

“Would it have helped?”

“Yes. No- I _swore_ that I would kill him for what he did…what I _let_ him do!”

“I’m sorry.” The quiet words offered as a statement, not a justification.

“ _Fuck you_.” Glass shattered against the wall; he’d been aiming for it, mostly. Shards scattered across the end of the table where Varric sat, the rogue didn’t bat an eyelid.  
“And _fuck_ him for that…this…for being…”  
 _/Broken? At the mercy of something you can’t control, just like then? Afraid of someone already dead?/_

“This isn’t nothing; it’ll take as much time as-”

“Time? As if we know how much we’ve got of that. And I will not let him- control that…me…” He was out of his chair but wouldn’t let himself run again as he echoed the glass’s path to the table’s far end; not sure what he was trying to prove to whom but the need to stronger than the fear. And there was an invitation in Varric’s eyes as they met Hawke’s, in his lack of resistance as Hawke’s mouth closed over his-

-o-o-o-o-o-

Hawke’s kiss was rough, desperate; this time Varric didn’t turn it into their usual dance, sparring on so many levels, neither of them yielding easily. Didn’t resist, accepting whatever Hawke needed to take from him right now, trusting him. He let Hawke pull him to his feet, steer them both forcibly towards the bed, shedding clothes in careless violence; Varric was fairly sure he’d worn that shirt for the last time in its current form.

Hands turned him over as the bed met the back of his legs and then Varric bit back a hiss as one then a second finger, breached him in quick succession, spit-slicked but too much too fast. Hawke’s usually inventively dextrous hands now awkward, although Varric could feel the force he was only partially successfully trying to hold back in the tension trembling through the hand heavy on his back.

Varric shifted his hips, trying to smooth the edges of the uneven prep, to ease the sharp burn of a third finger enough that he could whisper “take what you need Sweeps”.  
To relax enough not to pull away as Hawke took him at his word in a single shove because he would let Hawke have this; ignoring the internal query on whether this was some form of self-imposed penance.

The bruising movement of Hawke’s hips was scattered, jerking, his hands digging in hard enough Varric knew he’d be marked tomorrow. Varric raised himself on his knees a little higher under that grip; just enough to get a hand on his own erection, shaky under the roughness that had the pain wound a couple of notches too high. Focussing on the balance of the smaller, easier sensations under his own hands; stroking himself, drawing enough pleasure in a counter-rhythm he could work with to ride the thrusts as he let Hawke fuck him through the mattress, hearing the other’s breath coming in short, rasping gasps.

When Hawke’s breath hitched and his tempo increased Varric’s own touch became firmer, faster as he let his orgasm take him; relaxing with the heat that pulsed through him on release turning everything languidly fuzzy for a few moments, even as he clenched painfully tightly around Hawke when the warrior shuddered under his own climax with a low, guttural cry. Hawke sagged against him, his breath heaving, and Varric felt a wetness patter against his back, light against the weight pinning him down.

Varric allowed himself one wince, silently to the mattress at the raw ache that most likely meant blood as Hawke pulled out abruptly; and he’d probably pay for it over the next couple of days. But he’d had rougher and with worse intentions, and none of that mattered as he turned a little stiffly to see the tears and the dawning look of horror on Hawke’s face as he straightened.

-o-o-o-o-o-

“I hurt you” Hawke’s words were as shaky as the look in his eyes. “Oh Gods, Varric I’m sorry please…I didn’t mean…I’m sorry-”

“Hey, hey sshhh listen; Cian _look_ at me.” Varric reached up to gently capture Hawke’s tear-streaked face between his hands.  
“You didn’t hurt me. If you had I’d have told you to stop.”  
Truth as far as it went and no need to quibble over which elements could be accused of being stretched.

“And _yes_ ; you would have. I know you.”  
That he believed, and he was no stranger to deliberate cruelty. Hawke watched him, the fire in those copper eyes dulled by guilt and uncertainty; and Varric put everything he had into his next words.

“Cian I know it’s a harder path, but you’re a survivor, not a victim; and you have _nothing_ to be ashamed of. You’ll find a way through this but please, you don’t have to do it alone.”

Hawke stared at him for a moment longer before ducking his head as a shudder ran through him, hiding the tears that ran freely now. He wouldn’t look at Varric, turning away to curl up at the bed’s edge; but he didn’t pull away as the rogue tucked in behind him. Carefully at first, Varric wouldn’t push that space too far; but when there was no resistance he pulled Hawke to him, enfolding him in a fierce embrace. Resting his head against the back of Hawke’s neck, trying to offer comfort through the closeness of skin against skin against the sobs of pain and rage that wracked Hawke’s frame, for all that they were near silent.

Varric didn’t say “sshhh”, or “it’ll be alright” because some lies had no place; but he lost count of the whispered truths “I love you” and “I’m here”.

Eventually the tears eased to choked uneven breaths; Hawke pulled away slightly, getting shakily to his feet as Varric let him go. Going just far enough to scrounge a healing flask from amongst the clutter on the near table, holding it out to Varric with a look that might have been trying for ‘won’t take no for an answer’ if not for the edge of pleading. Varric rolled his eyes just enough to imply how entirely superfluous it was, keeping anything else from his expression as he felt the effects kick in and wondering where they went from here.


	3. Out Of The Maze

“Varric…” Hawke’s eyes flicked away and back to his with an effort. “I need-” his jaw tightened as he swallowed. “I want you to take me.”

Oh Demonpiss. Why had he _known_ on some level that this was where they’d end up; somewhere that he wanted to be anywhere but? Knew that look of Hawke’s that said things that scared you had to be provoked on general principle; but could hear the fear behind the request.

“Sweeps, we don’t have to do this now.”  
_/Dammit you idiot wonderful human, you don’t ever have to prove anything to me./_  
Varric wondered if there was guilt over what had happened tonight layered into this, and decided that that was one game he was sodding well ready to fold out of.

“Yes; we do. Because he won’t be dead until then.”

Varric considered refusing, any number of prevarications running through his head, weighing up whether it would do more harm than good.  
_You wanted to be the one to help, the one that Hawke trusted. Is that trust going to run both ways?  
/…Reluctantly, yes./_

But if they were going to do this, they were damn well going to do it properly. Varric pulled two of the (decadently) soft cloths from the plentiful pile by the bed, handing one to Hawke. Cleaning away, hopefully in more ways than one, what had gone before; if you believed in symbolic gestures. And well, he made a living out of them.

“Any when, any why, we stop; alright?” He waited until he god a nod of understanding, even if it didn’t completely cover the uneasiness as Hawke turned to lie down.

-o-o-o-o-o-

He tensed in spite of himself but Varric’s hands, touched with oil, were sure and gentle, their strength roaming across his back and shoulders, seeking out and gradually easing the knotted tangles of muscles built up over too many recent distraction attempts. Working their way lower in tandem with Varric’s weight balanced lightly across him, the better to reach. A very naked Varric it was hard not to notice, but the rogue’s touch remained friendly and Hawke felt himself slowly yielding to it as it drifted over his lower back, across his ass and down each leg in turn.

By the time Varric reached the soles of both feet there was a warm humming across his body that felt thick enough to curl up in and have things stay the way they were for roughly forever. What he’d asked Varric seeming like insanity even by his standards, even as part of his mind whispered that things couldn’t stay this good until he’d faced it, beaten it…But he could feel the tension of fear crawling back in cold under the glow, and Varric’s out clause was looking so very tempting- until hands riffled playfully through the hair at the nape of his neck, trailing down to start at his shoulders again; still gentle but now seeking spots to draw out another sort of warmth.

Varric’s fingers grazed teasingly across ribs and hips, as his mouth laved lines of heat and kisses down Hawke’s spine, eventually closing over the spot that the rogue, sneaky bastard, had found a long time ago a little off his tailbone; that sent pleasure shivering out across his nerves at the gentlest pressure of teeth.

Hands palmed the cheeks of his ass, Varric’s weight nestled just behind him between his legs, a thumb sliding softly down the cleft and across his entrance to pause, flicking and nudging slow caresses and a generous slick of oil over the ring of muscles.

“Remember hide-and-seek at your place?”  
Oh the ‘explanations’ that had required. Varric’s roughly-purred reminiscence, in rhythm with his hand pulled a half-smile from Hawke in spite of himself.

“You hid on top of the bed canopy. Naked as I recall.” Actually the fabric had proved surprisingly resilient; for a while. “Cheater.”

“And where’s the fun without a challenge? That time in the Viscount’s gardens for example…” as Varric spoke he slid one finger in, slow and easy and gentle “and how many Hightown rooftops was it…?” The words interrupted Hawke’s reflexive start, reminding him who was with him, where he was; along with a dozen other stories of past shenanigans. One hand tracing across his back, the other inside him as one finger gradually became two, then three; stretching and filling him without pain, until the gentleness itself became a tease every time Varric’s fingers curled inside him, just enough to hit that spot deep inside and send sparks dancing through his belly on every stroke. Sensation building and ebbing as he moved against them and the sudden lack as Varric eased out had him shifting his hips as much in frustration as apprehension.

There was a question in Varric’s eyes as Hawke rolled over to face him, clear even through the arousal burning them almost to russet brown; a reassurance that even now they could pull back, stop. The knowledge that he could let him decide that he didn’t need to. Hawke nodded in answer as Varric stroked a hand down the side of his face, thumb brushing lightly across Hawke’s lips, the caring in the gesture so much at odds with everything else of that evening, mostly because of him…the momentary flicker of guilt had him thinking how bloody sick he was of that particular emotion haunting this relationship.

Until the slight burn as Varric started to enter him, tightness riding that edge between pleasure and pain that usually he loved was suddenly enough to send memory smashing across his vision of-  
_…wood and metal digging at his back, cold light above him…pain nailing him in place…_

“Cian.”

_…and pale eyes laughing at his helplessness as-_

-o-o-o-o-o-

…not here.  
The eyes above him were warm and dark as Hawke found and fixed on them; gradually relaxing enough to register the bed beneath him, its surroundings familiar, private. And eventually to nod the desire to continue firmly enough to ease minutely the concern in Varric’s gaze as he waited, movement stilled; poised an instant away from invoking his own words.

After a long, considering moment Varric continued to ease into him slow and smooth, until he sat fully sheathed, one hand caressing Hawke’s thigh in reassurance not restraint, the other lightly cupping his ass. And Hawke’s hands clutched at the rumpled linens, his breath coming in a rough exhale as Varric began to move, a lazy, rolling glide that was both maddening and wonderful. Angling his hips to brush just so inside him precisely often enough to promise everything and leaving him wanting more…

Until fingers wrapped around his cock, painfully hard in the heat of the room and lack of contact, and _not enough_ suddenly became _too much_ and _so fucking good_ all at once as Varric’s hand slid along him in a counterpoint to the rhythm of his hips that said he’s just showing off now. With every stroke along Hawke’s shaft, firm then soft, palm encircling and tugging at the rim at the base of the crown before sliding up across his head to slick him with his own wetness.

Hawke could see it in Varric’s eyes, under the desire there was a care, a joy in being able to offer this, to replace memories of pain with pleasure. And Hawke drank it in along with the sight of Varric kneeling in front of him, the lanterns’ light playing off muscles and tinting that pelt of hair that Hawke had fallen for (among other things) like a drunk off the docks, taking every cliché with him along the way.

And through the smell of sex and sweat from the bed that’s his more than anything at the estate these days, the scent that is uniquely Varric’s. The tang of warm earth but with an edge of something deeper and cooler- for all that Varric’s a surface dwarf the stone stays with him- and underneath a hint of something, like smoke. Hawke decided a while back it was secrets, secrets that you probably weren’t supposed to know but it was so much more fun when you did.

A thumbnail traced between his balls, up the underside of his shaft, sending him bucking into the hand winding a tight spiral around him as a thumb delved, caressing into his slit. Somehow Varric kept his rhythm although Hawke could feel the fine tremors of effort that it took rippling through the heat and tightness building in tiny, flickering pulses.

“Varric…fuck…please…” Hawke’s pleas gasped through their breathing hitching in and out around each other. For a brief, teasing eternity Varric held the pace before lifting it as his thrusts became longer, firmer. Hawke could feel the heat building deeper now as Varric’s hand bobbed shallowly at the base of his cock, fingers twining to brush across his balls once, twice, three times as the orgasm hit him hard and fast, sending him arching against the bed, gasping out hoarse, half-formed curses, pleasure arcing through him in waves as he tightened around Varric, drawing a sound half cry, half growl from the rogue as he shuddered in his own finish inside Hawke; setting the sensations of tightness and release sparking again and again off one another white-hot.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Slow and gentle wasn’t generally how they ended up, but maybe there was something to it outside of prose. Yeah, he’d get around to considering that; sometime. Right after his breathing slowed and his eyes remembered how to focus. Varric settled back on his heels a little shakily as Hawke’s eyes opened to meet his. Foremost in them was relief, but also the faint rekindling of their former fire as the shadows faded a little more; making Varric promise he’d see them gone one way of the other.

Hawke sat up slowly, before reaching out to pull Varric to him and Gods be good there was the bear hug he’d waited for too bloody long to give and get back. No bears in Orzammar? Irrelevant detail, you wanna make something of it…? Kneeling a little awkwardly on Hawke’s thighs but it was a convenient reason to hold on tighter, putting them at just the right height to rest his head against Hawke’s shoulder, feeling the other’s buried in the crook of his neck. Breathing in the warrior’s scent that tasted of outdoors and the wilds, but in a good way for once, and underneath it metal; the hotter living tang of copper.

“Sweeps?” Varric asked quietly when Hawke eventually drew back just enough to look at him again. “Are we good, between us? This night, past nights; can we let them go, start again? ‘Cause I gotta say, running the numbers, guilt makes a really lousy tenant.”

“Yeah” Hawke whispered after a moment. “Sounds like a plan. It never did put anything towards rent.”  
The faint smile that actually reached Hawke’s eyes for the first time in too long seemed like a fine return for his efforts. The kiss that Hawke pulled him in for, well that was just an added bonus.

“Since when did you end up owning yet another blanket?” Hawke enquired; when at some point they decided that the bed would be warmer and more comfortable if it was dragged into some condition above ‘laundry pile’.

Actually there were three, light enough to be layered on as needed to ward against nocturnal ‘migrations’ but the red one was the most striking; intricate black knots curling across the deep scarlet. And, now that you mention it the colours _would_ be complementary to a naked human sprawled across them…how about that.

“Never hurts to be prepared; since you like that one it’s yours, but I have to warn you there’s a thief known to work this area; subtle, tricky to catch, and I should know.” Varric settled under the covers, rolling onto one side to watch as Hawke joined him, the offer there to be taken up, or not.

“For blankets? Seems strictly amateur.” A hesitation, there and gone, before Hawke curled up beside him, settling his head against chest and shoulder as Varric gently drew him in. One hand reached out to idly trace through curls of hair.  
“I can think of far more valuable things around here to steal.”

_/And I know for a fact you’ve stolen one thing pretty thoroughly./_  
The fact that that particular line belonged mainly in the lexicons of blatant innuendo and over-purpled prose didn’t, in this case, make it untrue.

“Daring larceny? Sounds like a plan I should know more about. And if certain blankets have to be sacrificed as a distraction to our nameless miscreant well, experience tells me the payoff will be more than worth it; I’m pretty sure I can live with that.”

“ ’s a brilliant plan; tell you tomorrow” Hawke muttered sleepily into Varric’s chest.

“I’ll be waiting Cian.” And since they were on the subject, thieving another kiss; because he could.

Pleasantly, the night passed unbroken if restlessly for Hawke although Varric wasn’t going to complain about the interruptions; deep sleeping wasn’t a recommended lifestyle choice in his line of work anyway. And when he awoke in the late morning after snatching a few hours it was to a bed creatively rearranged, to his side for once; and to Hawke still sleeping, burrowed in next to him.

As far as Varric was concerned, best night’s sleep ever.

_~~~ Fin ~~~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this needs anything more to make it less 'the magical healing power of cock'? Which was entirely not the intention. And Cian Hawke is solidly lousy at being kind to himself.


End file.
